A Letter to My Soon-to-Be Middle Child

My sweet, dear, lovable, adorable, smile-that-will-knock-you-to-the-floor Kabes,

Tonight I sat and rocked you for a long time. Partially for you, because so you sweetly pointed to the chair and said “mama rock” over and over.

But mostly,

for me.

Because, as I so astoundingly realized tonight, your babyness is quickly slipping away. Last week you turned two. You’re walking and running like a three year old, saying new words every ten minutes, putting together sentences and quickly learning how to be ornery (thanks to a certain one-who-shall-remain-unnamed big brother).

At your two year old checkup this week they had to come back and measure you a second time. Because, by their records, you had grown 4 inches in less than 6 months. Because, they were certain that just wasn’t possible. But, sure enough, they had measured correctly the first time. 4 inches and 4 pounds. In 6 months. Dude, slow down.

You jumped from 18-month clothes to 3T in what seems to be a blink of an eye. Last week I put a pair of sweatpants on you that had miraculously shrunk 2 inches. I’m literally watching you grow up before my eyes, and there is absolutely nothing I can do to stop it. To slow it down.

So I sat here tonight, with your little body draped over my growing belly, your lanky arms and legs hanging off the chair, your sweet head drooped over my shoulder, and relished my time with you. My baby. Even though, soon enough, I’ll be rocking another baby in this very same chair, there is something about you. You, my sweet Kabes. My mama’s boy. My big-hearted daddy-adorer. My big-brother-chaser. My boy. You might be a middle child one day in the near future, but you will always be my baby.

And so we rocked. And I cried. And you laughed because you thought my sobs and heaves were from laughter not tears. But, the laughing seemed appropriate, because, well, because they were happy tears. And sad tears. And thankful tears. And thankful prayers for this time with you. My sweet little one. And hopeful prayers that one day, when I get to heaven, God might let me relive these moments. These moments where my heart is bursting. And time stands still.

And so we rocked. With you drooling and snotting onto my shoulder from your recent cold. And clinging to your stuffed puppy like he might pick up and run away. And smelling faintly of baby shampoo. And toothpaste. And barbecue sauce.

And those are the things I’ll remember. The things that will take me back when you’re 12 and sleeping with your baseball glove. Or when you’re 18 and picking out colleges. Or when you grow up and become your own man. Or when you marry and have your own babies.

Korban, your name speaks mountains as to how we feel about you. It is originally from the Torah, meaning “a blessing from God, dedicated back to God”. You are our special, unique, truly wonderful blessing from God. And we give you, and your life, and your health, and your heart back to Him every day. Because, firstly, before you were ours to love, you were His. And lastly, after you were ours to love, you are His.

Because, like we pray with you and your brother every single night, that, above all else, above health and prosperity and wisdom and success and joy, that our only hope is that you know and love your Creator one day.

That our greatest gift as parents to you would be a legacy of faith. A legacy of grace. A legacy of Christ. 


as for tonight,

my sweet one,

my growing baby boy,

we’ll rock.

Love forever and always,


“For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.” 1 Corinthians 1:18  



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